The Small Hours

It is in the small hours of the silvery dark that our truth, the truth of our desires, our need, the veracity of the yearnings that stir our minds, arouse our bodies, tremble our souls rises up to meet us; to sigh and whisper, to sensually caress, to scream and shake and jolt us out of the somnambulist existence which often typifies our days in the bright.

It is in the shadowed quiet that the passions profound and profane overtake us, unwilling, unable to be kept any longer at bay. It is in this stillness, this dim that my flesh sings its torch song, my lips aching to feed and tongue to taste, my arms craving to soothe and fingers to trace, my heat hungering for communion, for otherness, for the sweetest of violations.

It is here, it is now, all pretence is stripped away and I can freely confess to the phantoms of the night, I can openly admit in the safety of this velvet embrace, I can finally own in the sphere of my reality and the realm of my wonder, he is the man I have always longed to meet.